Takes Care of Yous
by Klarinette-18
Summary: Murderface needs to be bathed; super drunk, puked everywhere. Skwisgaar finds him and can't help but take pity on him.


**Title: **"Takes Care of Yous"

**Author: **Klarinette_18

**Character(s)/Pairing(s): **Murderface, Skwisgaar, Dethklok

**Rating: **PG-13

**Word count: **1,528

**Summary: **Murderface needs to be bathed; super drunk, puked everywhere. Skwisgaar finds him and can't help but take pity on him.

**Warnings: **Fluff, if you're looking from the right angle. Murderface throws up.

**Comments: **This is a previously failed fic; I'd written a very substantial chunk of it, and then the file disappeared. Let's try it again! The idea came from this list of commissions I found in one of the communities at some point during the summer. Also, I've decided this is an addition to "Charlie Boy," the St. Patrick's Day fic I wrote, but this one is Skwisgaar and Murderface's experiences. Oh, and no, that's not N/T slash-if-you-squint… Nathan just cares more than he'd admit.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

It hadn't been an awful night; nothing out of the ordinary, really. Charles had left the bar somewhat angry, Pickles was singing songs to the entire bar, Nathan was being quiet and watching everyone else, Toki was having a hard time maintaining a seated position, Skwisgaar looked broody, and Murderface had consumed far too much tequila.

Nathan finally spoke, "Uh…" Pickles stopped singing and watching Nathan tentatively, "We should, uhhh… probably… think about, uh… you know… going home… or something."

"What's you means goes homes? We amn'ts dones drinkings yets," Toki managed to slur, earning a chuckle and pat on the back from Pickles.

"Nat'ans ams rights," Skwisgaar announced, "We ams haves dats records to… dat records whats… we ams recordingks tomorrows."

"No, yer right, Nate'n," Pickles nodded, "We should git behck. I'll let Charlie know we're home 'n ready to go fer da mornin'."

Nathan grunted, looking at Murderface, "Uh… you gonna puke and stuff, or… can you, like… you know… make it to the car or whatever?"

Murderface didn't respond.

"Uh, Murderface?"

"I… am fine," he lifted his head without opening his eyes, "Lead the way."

The DethLimo was waiting outside, a Klokateer standing guard by the open door. Each of the Dethklok members got inside, with varying levels of difficulty. The ride home was typical, though uneventful; Nathan took to making noises to himself, Pickles hassled the driver, Toki passed out cold, Murderface looked nearly as green as his drinks did, and Skwisgaar watched, wishing he'd brought his guitar. Upon arrival at Mordhaus, Nathan hauled Toki over his shoulder, despite several waiting Klokateers offering to take Toki to his room for him.

Nathan simply shrugged, "He's already, like… on my shoulder and stuff."

Pickles stumbled out right after, and headed inside without saying anything to anyone.

Murderface practically rolled out of the limo, Skwisgaar having to step over him to get out. A couple Klokateers helped Murderface to his feet, but he swatted their hands away, insisting on getting to his room on his own. Skwisgaar stood for a moment, watching Nathan carry Toki inside. He would have to check on him later and make sure he wasn't dead – he never really could handle his alcohol. He followed suit and went inside, heading for his bedroom and, hopefully, a good night's rest.

The lead guitarist was about to go into his room when he heard the sound of a loud, guttural groan, followed by liquid hitting the stone floor. Oh great, someone was puking outside of his room. He turned around to see Murderface sitting on his right leg, his head propped up on his left knee, his arms clenching his stomach. This was probably to be expected; he'd watched Murderface take shots of tequila all night – tequila with that nasty food colouring in it.

Skwisgaar hesitated a moment, and then decided it best to make sure Murderface wouldn't be there all night. "Hey… yous okay overs dere?"

The bassist responded with a loud, guttural groan followed by hard wretching. When nothing came up, he collapsed against the stone floor, the side of his arm making a _smat_ sound as it hit the puddle of puke.

"Okay, dat ams disgustings," the Swede said, a little annoyed by the whole thing. He debated whether it would just be easier to call a Klokateer and have them clean up this mess; Odin knows he didn't want acrid tequila puke reek stuck in the hallway all night. For whatever reason, he suddenly started to somewhat feel sorry for Murderface… concerned, even.

"Hey, Moidaface… you ams gonna lives?"

The bassist didn't respond.

Skwisgaar sighed to himself, approaching Murderface's limp body. "You can't lays here all night in yous own pukes. You ams gonna suffs-ems-cates," he offered, nudging the body with his boot.

"I'm fiiine," Murderface finally said, "Juscht move along… nothing to… schee here."

"I can't just leaves you here," the guitarist said, "Comes on, you wanna chokes on yous own puke? Rolls over." He knelt down and tried to push Murderface onto his stomach and, hopefully, get him to stand.

"What the fuck are you doing?" the bassist groaned, alarmed by the feel of cold hands on his back, completely against the idea of mobility, "Juscht let me schleep here, I'll be fine."

"Whatsevers, just gets on your knees."

Murderface reluctantly complied, feeling some of his weight being lifted and supported. One of the cold hands was holding his arm over bony shoulders, the other around his back, keeping him standing. He dragged his feet as best he could, the taller body hunching slightly next to him. He'd never bothered opening his eyes, and couldn't think of a reason to now.

To Skwisgaar's relief, Murderface's bedroom door had been left open, keeping him from having to release one of his hands, potentially dropping the drunk, heavy bass player. He sat down on the bed, lowering Murderface with him. As soon as the bassist felt this, he went completely limp and let himself fall backwards. The cold body had left his side now, and he could hear water running. He felt around the place he'd been laid, and identified it as his own bed; whoever brought him here knew exactly what he wanted. He wanted to curl up in his blanket, but remained on his back, his head beginning to spin. He could feel the weight of his shirt on his chest, the green-stained line of vomit down his torso now soaking through his shirt and wetting his skin.

He was startled to feel his left foot being lifted and his boot yanked on. "Hey! What the fuck are you doin'?" He kicked his foot feebly.

"Stops dat! You needs to gets out of your clothes. You needs a bath."

"I'll take a bath when I'm goddamn good n' ready."

"Moidaface, you amn't goings to sleeps covereds in tequila pukes. Sits up and gets yous shirts off."

Murderface sneered, eyes still closed, "That'sch scho gay."

He felt his shirt slide up his torso and over his head, the smell of the vomit stinging his nose and causing him to gag a little bit. He heard footsteps walk away from him, the squeak of metal, and then the sound of running water. He was just starting to doze off when he heard the footsteps get louder again, and then felt cold hands pulling at the waistband of his shorts. He wanted to swat them away, but could only groan.

"I leaves you alones for two second, and you falls asleeps. Does you t'inks I _wants_ to undress yous?"

Murderface felt his shorts slip down his legs as the cold hands wrapped around his arm and began pulling, forcing him to sit up again. His arm was being held around the same bony shoulders from before, and he was being coaxed to walk towards the running water. The stones on the floor changed under his feet, and he knew he was in the bathroom now, also feeling the humidity from the hot water.

"Comes on, lift yous foot,"Skwisgaar instructed, tapping lightly against Murderface's outer thigh. The bassist did as asked, and managed to climb into the tub of hot water (which felt really fucking nice), taking his time to sit down slowly.

Failing to find any shampoo bottles in the immediate vicinity, Skwisgaar opted to use a bar of soap to wash Murderface's hair. He worked the bar into a thick lather in his hands, the bar slipping out of his hand and into the bathtub, disappearing beneath the bassist's legs. _Oh wells, _he thought. He worked the foamy lather into the frizzy mop.

"How ams you gets pukes in your hair, Moidaface?"

The bassist just groaned in response, starting to sway with the gentle scrubbing on his scalp. The cold fingers were beginning to warm. He lifted his own hands to wipe his chest and do his best to clean away some of the vomit smell from his chest. The scrubbing on his head stopped, replaced by warm water being poured over his head. Everything was so soothing. He reclined back against the tub and let out a sigh. He realized now who the cold hands and bony shoulders belonged to.

Skwisgaar leaned on the bathtub and rested his chin on his arms. He was beginning to feel pretty tired now, but wasn't about to just the leave the bassist there.

"Hey…"

Skwisgaar looked up, "Ja?"

Murderface hesitated for a moment, "…thanksch."

The unexpected gratitude from the bassist made the Swede smile. "Don'ts be mentioningks it," he said, "Seriouslies."

That earned Skwisgaar a chuckle. He helped Murderface out of the tub and drained the water while the bassist toweled off, having opened his eyes now, possibly having found something resembling equilibrium. Skwisgaar was quick to get to his side when he suddenly stood up, but Murderface walked himself back to his bed and flopped down, curling into a ball in both the towel and blanket. The guitarist decided that he'd be fine, and left the room. Much to Skwisgaar's relief, by the time he got back to his own room, the vomit on the floor had already been cleaned up.


End file.
